Through the Breach
by LoyalPaddler
Summary: A collection of happenings that could possibly take place during Sherlock's absence.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: This is a collection of situations that could have happened during Sherlock's absence. It's kind of my way of seeing our beloved characters through the breach until Sherlock can make things right again. (Fingers crossed, BBC!) Warning: these can be a bit sad. But such is the nature of the beast, eh? I don't own these characters.

* * *

Mrs. Hudson

* * *

She hadn't meant to sneak up on him. The house was so unnaturally quiet, it seemed to swallow the sound of her footsteps on the stairs.

John was in his arm chair.

Funny how they'd laid claim; she'd never seen John sit in the other.

He had his hand up to the side of his mouth, as if he'd been in the process of rubbing his jaw and had forgotten what he was doing. John was a deliberate man and seeing him arrested like that seemed wrong somehow.

But it was the eyes that had the truth of it. He looked, unseeing, at a space just beyond Sherlock's chair, near the window. He hardly blinked, and she got the impression that his eyes could not get traction. That the sight that _ought_ to be there was burned so deeply into his mind that some part of him had halted in anticipation of its arrival. Waiting to see something that would never appear.

_John is looking for his life. _

The thought knocked the wind out of her, and she stepped back onto the landing, trying to catch her breath. She pressed a hand to her own mouth, emotion bowing her shoulders and tightening her face.

This would cost her both her boys, she knew. This hateful, hateful turn of events had taken one and would drive away the other. Because John Watson was strong, but he had been uncoupled and left behind, and she could see plainly in his stillness and silence that the loss was burning him from the inside out.

_Sherlock Holmes, _she scolded silently, _we _needed _you. You were lucky to find him; we both knew that. So lucky to have such a heart. _She shook her head, quietly starting back down the stairs. _I never thought I'd see the day you would leave that man behind. _


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks for reading!

* * *

Sally Donovan

* * *

A mugging.

Though, going by the state of the girl's blouse, it had been quickly on its way toward something worse.

Until it was _stopped_.

The girl had been rescued by an anonymous passerby, and Sgt. Sally Donavan had lived in a world of blind-eyes long enough to know how unusual that truly was.

Donovan would not have gone to the scene—as Lestrade always said, '_Not my division_'—but she was only a few blocks away when the call came over the radio.

Even so, she was not the first officer to arrive. A squad car was already parked at the mouth of the alley spilling red and blue into the corners of the street. The perpetrator was seated, handcuffed, in the backseat. She noted the blackened eye, the split lip. Someone had certainly shown the man what's what.

The victim was still in the alley, talking to an officer. She kept shooting glances at another man standing a few meters away, as if reassuring herself that he was still there. Here was the Good Samaritan, then. Donovan stepped forward.

Her mind picked up the clues as she approached—the graying sandy hair, the short stature—but she did not piece them together until he turned, and too late, she recognized John Watson.

Donovan pulled up short.

She hadn't seen the doctor _since_.

Watson's eyes flicked her way, and she knew he recognized her, but his gaze went right back to the officer he was addressing without so much as a pause.

Cursing her own hesitation, Donovan drew nearer, catching the tail end of the officer's instructions.

"—down to the station for the official report. Paperwork and such."

"Right," Watson replied, and might have said more, but his arms were suddenly full of the victim. She clung to him for a moment, and Donovan heard her murmur, "Thank you, thank you," before Watson carefully rearranged his hold so he could step back. He squinted at the young woman clinically, using practiced fingers to inspect the bruise on her cheek.

"Should clear up, that, but you'll go with the paramedics, get the wrist checked out." His tone was gentle but authoritative, taking things in stride. The young woman nodded, and Watson echoed the movement approvingly before passing her into the hands of a paramedic.

Donovan had heard that tone from Watson before, more than once. Her mind flashed back to one particular occasion when they'd been involved in a stand-off at a crumbling manufacturing facility. A young officer had been clipped in the head by a thrown brick, and the laceration bled profusely. Watson used the kit he stored in the boot of Lestrade's car to stitch the officer up, alternating between telling the officer a truly bawdy story from his army days and explaining the stitching process to—

Donovan's mind stumbled on the name. She pushed the thought away.

At the moment, Watson showed no signs of being rattled by the evening's events, even though he'd apparently involved himself in a fight (with a man five inches taller and three stone heavier), won, and walked away with nary a scratch.

But after all this time, Donovan was not really surprised. She'd seen Watson pin suspects to the wall, had witnessed the relief some of them betrayed when she'd come with handcuffs to take them away. She'd seen him make snarky comments while pinned down by gunfire. She'd seen him breathless and grinning after chasing down a criminal on foot.

Simply put, with Dr. Watson, there was more than met the eye.

A car door slammed at the end of the alley, and Watson's head turned toward the sound in such a way that Donovan's imagination immediately supplied an impatient, baritone voice calling, "John!"

Donovan shivered.

She could nearly see the dark coat, the two of them standing close, conferring, Watson the protective eyes and ears as—

Her mind stumbled over the name a second time, and she cursed under her breath.

_Holmes_, she forced herself to think. _Sherlock Holmes. The freak. _

_The man who made his best friend watch him jump off a building._

"All right," she heard Watson telling the officer. "Tomorrow, then." And with a nod, he started toward her end of the alley. He was limping, she noticed; perhaps he had not escaped the fight uninjured after all. He did not avoid eye contact as he approached, so Donovan finally got a good look at him. He was thin—it showed in the angles of his face—and he looked tired.

And there was…something. A stubborn efficiency in his expression that gave Donovan the unnerving impression that here was a man who was keeping everything together despite deficiency. As if he was surviving on half-rations and improvised skill.

This was a man who'd lost his heart but kept on living.

Watson slowed as he neared her, and she thought for a moment that he might say something, but instead he stooped and picked up the aluminum cane that lay forgotten near her feet. He straightened, shoulders square, all determined fortitude, and his steady eyes slid right past her as he limped on.

Donovan didn't turn.

But later, much later, alone in her car, she cried.

She cried for the dark coat. For their two heads leaned in close together. For the knowing looks, the wordless conversations, the uncanny, orbiting symbiosis. For the look she'd seen on Watson's face before he punched the Police Superintendent. For the blood on the pavement and the return of the cane. And for the dogged determination of the half that still remembers the whole, but can no longer reach it. For the loss of such a thing in the world. And for John Watson's refusal to break.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: I'm nervous about this one. I don't write slash because I'm not a real Johnlock shipper, but this one illustrates how _important_ I think their relationship is to _both _of them. Bit out of character? Maybe. Apologies. I don't own these characters. Thanks, team.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes

* * *

Sherlock was furious. Angry enough to feel it in his cheekbones, his shoulders, the back of his throat. Such a risk, a stupid, _stupid _risk. Risking it _all_, and against Sherlock's wishes, despite his instructions. He was so furious with Mycroft that he wanted to rip the yellow envelope to shreds. The yellow envelope that shouldn't be here, that never should have existed, let alone have been carried halfway across Europe by some anonymous member of Mycroft's network. The yellow envelope flew in the face of everything Sherlock was working for, and he hated his brother for sending it, hated the innocuous paper, hated the risk the whole thing represented.

But he did not throw it away.

In fact, his fingers were trembling, eager to tear it open and lay claim to what was inside.

Because you didn't have to be the world's only consulting detective to recognize what the envelope contained.

Sherlock's hands twitched again, the pads of his fingers running the length of the envelope's edge, quickening his traitor heart. He shouldn't. He could still destroy it. Burn it to keep it away from the eyes of the world.

But Sherlock Holmes was essentially a selfish creature—still the addict.

So he opened the flap.

Out spilled three glossy photographs.

All of John Watson.

John carrying a grocery bag in the street. John coming up the stairs from the tube. John glancing back over his shoulder as if someone had just called his name.

Three photographs. Black and white swapping out John's sandy gold and hazel for varying shades of charcoal and gray. Candid.

And enough to almost stop Sherlock's heart.

It wasn't as if he didn't have John's face memorized—the straight nose, the even eyes, the frequent purse in his lips. But memory was not new, was not current, did not reflect the inevitable changes in the doctor's life. He looked thinner slightly, tired. His face was straight, but in one of the shots his eyes were down-turned in a way that made Sherlock wonder what he was concentrating on.

He passed his fingers over the photos and made an interesting realization—

John Watson was the love of his life.

At least, that would be the term in the vernacular. John was the person Sherlock cared for most. The person who had managed to worm his way deepest into Sherlock's supposedly nonexistent heart.

John would hate the wording, he knew. He'd worry the world would attribute the phrase to romance, but to Sherlock it was different. John was… _important_. Integral. Precious. However unlikely, however unwise, it was the truth: John Watson was his _reason._

And perhaps Mycroft knew that, because why else would he have taken the risk to forward these photos along?

Still, Sherlock knew he could not keep them. He had done too much to achieve anonymity. If he were ever discovered with these photographs, it could arouse suspicions that would negate the careful plans surrounding the Fall.

It put John at risk.

So, as badly as Sherlock wanted to hold on to these images, keep them as bastions against the nights of suffocation when he felt entirely untethered, he could not take the risk. He dumped the yellow envelope into the bin. Pausing long enough to roll his gaze across John's familiar features one last time, he dropped the photographs into the can and chased them with a lit match. The fire was brief, but he still had time to send off a text before the flames were gone.

_Don't do that again._

Mycroft's reply came quickly. _Only a reminder. _

_I don't need a reminder; I need him safe. That was the agreement. Do your job._

_As you wish. _

Sherlock stalked to the window and looked out into the night. He was glad Mycroft could not see him in that moment. If he had, he would have known his little maneuver had been a success: Sherlock Holmes was well and truly _homesick_. He glared at the sky, willing it to lighten, willing the day to come so he could continue the plan. The faster, the better.

Sherlock Holmes wanted to go home.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: An interesting combination in this one. You guys are wonderful. I don't own these characters.

* * *

Mary Morstan and Mycroft Holmes

* * *

Mary was four blocks from home when the black car pulled up to the curb. At first, she thought nothing of it—why would she? It'd been months since the last of the reporters. The world, it seemed, had finally moved on—but then a voice called her name.

"Miss Morstan?" It wasn't really a question; the tall, elegantly dressed gentleman obviously knew who she was. "Please do not be alarmed. I am an acquaintance of Dr. Watson, and I was hoping for a few moments of your time."

Mary's tone was polite, if solid. "If you intended any of those moments to take place in there"—she looked pointedly at the still-open door of the dark vehicle—"I'm afraid I will have to disappoint you. The whole don't-take-rides-from-strangers thing. You understand."

"I wouldn't dream of asking it," the man replied, sounding slightly amused. He gestured toward the wide park path. "Shall we walk, then?"

Mary hesitated for half a breath then nodded. If he meant her harm, he would have tried to stuff her into the back seat. Or the trunk. As it was, he was leading her down the populated park walk, swinging his umbrella, metering his long strides in deference to her smaller steps. Perfectly polite.

"So," she said after a moment, "you're here to talk about John."

"Yes."

"Forgive me, but what makes you think I would be willing?"

"You don't even know what I am asking yet."

"Does it matter?" The man's lips twitched at her answer, and Mary realized she'd pleased him somehow.

"Ah, loyalty," he drawled. A portion of his mind had flitted elsewhere. Remembering, perhaps?

"Common sense," she replied. "I don't even know who you are."

"Actually, Miss Morstan, I believe you do." All right, he had a point: the black car, the height, the umbrella...

"Well, then. What do you want, Mr. Holmes?" Mycroft smiled.

"Information."

"About John. Why?"

"Call it concern for his well-being."

Mary tipped her head, unconvinced. "You don't need me for that, Mr. Holmes. You've got agents and cameras. John's told me that he thinks you've had him followed in the past. I'd venture to say that you know _exactly _what he's been up to."

"I know his comings and goings, but I am curious as to his emotional state."

Mary's eyes softened, but her lips pressed into a wary line.

"Regarding your brother," she finished for him. Mycroft continued walking, face impassive, emotionless. It should have rankled her, this apparent lack of feeling, but some instinct stilled her thoughts. She stopped walking, and Mycroft swung round to look her in the face.

"It's not my place to tell you John's feelings, Mr. Holmes. You know him. He wouldn't appreciate the invasion of his privacy. But I can tell you this much, because it's plain for anyone to see: John _misses_ your brother." She had his full attention—she could see that—this man whose mind stretched so far in any given moment, was completely focused on her words. She wondered if they brought him comfort. "John misses him every day. Loved him, I think. Beyond that, you'll have to come around and ask him yourself." Mary couldn't help the slightly rueful smile. "I'm sure you know the address."

"I appreciate your candor, Miss Morstan." They were walking again, coming to the other end of the park. Mary could see the black car waiting up ahead.

"Mr. Holmes?" He tipped his chin, regarding her. "I'm sorry. For your loss." She hoped she wasn't overstepping her bounds. "I didn't know your brother, sir, but from what I understand… he was something truly great."

"Is that what John has told you?"

"He didn't have to. Look at all the good your brother did, the people he helped. And he… he had John."

She wasn't quite sure how to explain that—her idea about Sherlock and John. How no matter what the world said, Sherlock had earned John's loyalty, had kept it even after his fall, had worked his way so far into John's good heart that even now, the doctor still _dreamed_ of his friend. Nightmares, yes, but good dreams too… dreams of London, and chases, and skulls, and violins… She didn't know how to explain that Sherlock Holmes, the purportedly heartless man, had in some ways _become _John Watson's heart.

She couldn't explain any of it. But perhaps she didn't have to.

"Yes," Mycroft said simply. "You seem to see a great deal, Miss Morstan, and for that, I am grateful."

Mary shook her head, smile soft. "I am no Holmes, sir."

"Perhaps, not. But you _are _the chosen companion of Dr. John Watson, and I've come to see the value inherent in that. Do look after him." They'd reached the sidewalk. Mycroft hooked his umbrella over his arm and gave Mary a polite nod. "Good afternoon, Miss Morstan."

"And to you, Mr. Holmes."

She didn't wait to see the car pull away before she turned her feet toward home.


End file.
